


Double-Date

by staywiththething



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Double Dating, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, Light Angst, M/M, Sarcasm, Snark, couples doing couple shit idk man, like the lightest amount of angst ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26449786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staywiththething/pseuds/staywiththething
Summary: exactly what it says in the title ~A double-date with Waylon and Eddie and Chris and Miles that started off as a cute one-shot idea but quickly turned into a nearly 8,500 word monster.i need help. or a hug,,,,
Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park, Miles Upshur/Chris Walker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 73





	Double-Date

**Author's Note:**

> welp,,, i dropped all my other projects to write this fluff piece, because the weddie tag on ao3 is a cesspool of non-con and just general badness, so have some fucking sugar my dudes
> 
> thanks to @beastthemaestro for giving me this adorable idea!! <3 <3
> 
> this thing has no coherent plot and wasn't meant to reach the size it did,,,, but fuckit,,,, fluff time >:33

Stepping out from the cold street and into the restaurant, Waylon’s first thought was that he was wildly under-dressed for a place like this. Surely Miles must have given him the wrong address; this place has dim mood lighting and wine racks on the walls and a bar _not_ loaded with a bunch of skeevy perverts. Since when has Miles ever taken an interest in fancy shit? 

He wished he had Eddie here with him. Eddie always fits into places like this, not Waylon, wearing the ratty parka he’s had since college and his beat-up converse that’s he’s owned for even longer. Why didn’t Miles tell him that this place has _standards_? This is nothing like the usual spots Miles took him to after dragging him out for his journalistic ventures. He’s used to all-night diners with questionable hygiene ratings, not a place that looks like it actually makes efforts to keep out the rat infestations.

Nervously, he steps into the foyer, where a woman in red lipstick and a matching vest is looking down at something behind a booth loaded with menus. Waylon was disappointed to see that there were no shelves full of those puzzle sheets you often see kids filling out with cheap, half-inch long tubes of coloured grease passed off as crayons; thus only adding to his fears that this place wasn’t for kids and, even more frightening, wouldn’t have an inexpensive kid’s menu. So much for saving his wallet. Maybe if he appeals to Eddie’s gentlemanly nature he can avoid paying for his own meal . . . 

With no small amount of awkwardness, he cleared his throat to get the attention of the waiter, smiling at her shyly before asking, “Uhm, I’m supposed to be meeting some friends here? Table’s booked under Miles Upshur?”  
The woman nodded and returned his smile, easing him slightly as she said, “Of course, he’s just this way. May I take your coat first, sir?”

“Oh, sure!” Glad to be free of his incriminating parka, he shrugged it off and handed it to her gratefully, only for his stomach to turn when he realised that what he wore underneath wasn’t much better. He had come straight from work, see, and had had little time to change between fleeing from Blaire’s dubious after-hours meetings and rolling into what appears to be Denver’s own version of the Ritz. 

After cringing at the sight of the waiter trying to find a place for his jacket amongst racks of impeccably tailored pea coats, the woman returned and with another small smile and lead him into the belly of the restaurant.

Flitting between stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets and tugging at the cuffs of his shirt, Waylon kept his eyes trained on the carpeted floor as he walked past table after table of affluent and attractive people; people who actually come here to _enjoy_ themselves. Men in pristine button-downs and women with heavy-looking earrings that sparkled in the sparse lighting, all mightily better fitted to the atmosphere than Waylon ever will be. Maybe he should take Eddie up on that offer of a suit after all. It wouldn’t kill him to smarten up once in a while, even though he’s always oddly prided himself on being a sweatpants-and-hoodie kind of guy (much to Eddie’s quiet dismay).   
“Way! Way! Over here!” 

His head snapped up and so did his mood, his nerves dissolving once he saw his friend, Miles, who was waving to him like he was a castaway and Waylon was a passing fishing boat. He waved back, smiling as Miles rose from his seat to greet him. He was dressed like he always is, charmingly scruffy, like you’d never know he spent an hour gelling his hair just right to achieve the ‘loveable rogue’ look he’s had since college. The only thing missing was his jacket, which lay on the back of his chair. Waylon smiled. Of course Miles wouldn’t trust this place with his beloved jacket. 

United at last, the two of them hugged and the waiter disappeared with yet another smile and a promise to bring them some wine while they wait for the rest of their party.

“Chris left work not long ago - he said he’ll swing by Eddie’s shop and pick him up,” said Miles, sitting back down in his seat once he was done patting Waylon on the back.

“That’s nice of him,” said Waylon, moving to take his seat opposite, when he was suddenly stopped.

“Woah, woah, woah - what’re you doing?” the journalist asked.

Waylon frowned. “Taking my seat?”

“Not over there you’re not. Come on, sit next to me.”

“ _Next_ to you? That’s not how you sit on a double-date.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you the expert? This is the first time we’ve ever done it.”

“But the whole point is that you’re meant to sit _beside_ the person you’re dating, not opposite. We’re not interviewing them.”

Miles rolled his eyes, as if Waylon was somehow being the irrational one out of the two of them. “Come on, dude, please? I haven’t seen you in like a month and I don’t want to waste precious energy yelling at you across a table.”

Waylon huffed, his hands still gripping the back of the chair he initially planned on sitting at. Part of him wanted to continue the debate, but he knew that Miles could whine like he was getting paid for it, and he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself more than strictly necessary. He already feels like a fish out of water here, he dreads to think what kind of impression it’ll give others if he started arguing with Miles about the seating logistics that coincide within double-dates.

“Alright,” he surrendered, rolling through the ‘acceptance’ stage of losing. “You’re paying for my next drink, though.”

Miles waved a hand at that, dismissing his gloominess like it was a fly in need of swatting. “Yeah, yeah. You can bitch about me to your boyfriend when he gets here.”

“How’s Chris gonna feel when he sees that you don’t wanna sit next to him?” argued Waylon, dropping into his new seat next to his friend.

“He’s not gonna feel anything, because he’s a grown-ass man and we’re not in middle school,” Miles replied. “Chris and I aren’t like you and Eddie, Way. We don’t need to hold hands when we cross the street or wear matching outfits to prove we love each other.”

“We’ve never worn matching outfits,” Waylon mumbled. Miles gave him a look of disbelief, not relenting until the tech admitted, “I mean, Eddie’s mentioned it once or twice - but the guy makes clothes for a living! It’s his love language.”

“Love language?” Miles raised an eyebrow. “What, like Italian?”

“It’s not an actual language - it’s more like . . . I don’t know man, it’s just things people do when they like someone.”

“Like?”

“Like, packing their lunch for work, leaving them notes on the fridge, and _yes_ , wearing matching outfits,” Waylon explained, highly defensive over something so heinously trite as cutesy couple crap he himself would have rolled his eyes at only a year ago. But now it’s different. Now he has someone who actually does all that, but for him. And goddamnit, he likes it. 

“Aw, you two are so cute. I think I just thew up in my mouth a little bit,” laughed Miles.

“What does Chris do for you then?”

“Well, he certainly doesn’t make my lunch every morning, that’s for sure.”

“And why not?”

“Because he’s not my mom, Way,” smirked Miles. “I swear, it’s like you’re dating a grandma. He even wears those ugly sweaters. How old is Eddie now? Sixty?”

“He turned forty-seven in September - I don’t know why you always pretend to not know, you were at his birthday party,” Waylon grumbled. 

“I’m just saying, he’s getting up there. In ten years, five even, he’ll be using a walker and asking you to wash his dentures.”

“Have you _seen_ , Eddie? He’s fitter at forty-seven than you are at thirty-five.”

“And Chris could beat his ass at eighty,” Miles argued. “Maybe we should pit them against one another - cover them in oil and make them fight nude like they do in Turkey.”

They both went silent as they marinated in the image of their respective lover’s wrestling naked with one another, before the waiter returned with their wine and poured them out their glasses. Clearing his throat, Waylon sipped at his glass and tried a different approach of conversation. “How’s your investigation going?”

“Slowly,” his friend sighed, running his finger along the rim of his glass. “It’d go a lot faster if you agreed to go on more stake-outs with me.”

“I would if my work-hours weren’t getting constantly fucked. But, then again, I don’t see how getting drunk and eating junk food in your car while we watched warehouses ever helped much with your cases.”  
“I wouldn’t expect a non-journalist to see the many complex nuances that go with my line of work. The truth is ugly, Way, but finding it is even uglier. My methods aren’t always sound, but they are successful.”

“Miles, you’re not Truman Capote, okay? You write conspiracy theories on your blog for insomniacs and anarchists.”

“Hey, I’ll take the anarchists and the insomniacs over the sheep that consume whatever crap floats past their retinas on TV.”

Waylon sunk into his seat and took another sip of wine, knowing from experience that it’s better to just let Miles go on his little rampages about town and not appear too surprised when he reveals his next big break matches the same dribblings as the next tin-foil-hat-wearing maniac. “Does Chris ever help you out with your cases?”

“He offers, but I always tell him to just go to work and not worry. I don’t want someone who has feelings for me getting in the way of my story.”

“How very noble of you.”

“You think so?”

“No,” said Waylon bluntly. “I think you’re incredibly stupid for seeing how much that man loves you, only to still go out and leave him to worry about you all night.”

“What else am I meant to do, Way? I’m an investigator. If I don’t investigate, then I’m not a very good one, am I?”

“You can still be a journalist and come home each night.”

“Yeah, you can, if you write gossip-columns for the local paper. I want _truth_ , Way. Real, hard-hitting facts. You don’t get those if you have to keep coming back home in time for dinner.”

“And Chris is really okay with that?”

“If he loves me like he says he does, then yes, he is.”

They fell back into silence, only this time it was far less humorous. The restaurant ambience seemed louder without the two of them talking over it. Waylon bit his lip. They haven’t seen each other in person in a good few weeks, and this is how they reunite? God, he felt like an asshole. He wished Eddie could get here sooner . . .

Trying his best to rectify the atmosphere, he threw Miles a softball. “How do you explain to people how the two of you met? You and Chris, I mean.”

Miles, despite himself, smiled. Lifting his glass up to his lips he said, “We lie and tell them we met at a bus stop.”

“As opposed to the truth?” Waylon grinned.

“You mean the truth being that I was breaking and entering into the Murkoff research facility you work at because you refused to let me borrow your pass, only to get promptly chased out by security, only to sprain my ankle running in the woods and have Chris bring me back and fix me up and give me his number?” The sarcasm in Miles’ voice coated his words like paint. “Believe it or not, Way, people don’t see much romance in that.”

“I think it’s cute,” the tech confessed. “Though if I had known how much you two would have hit it off, I’d’ve saved you the twisted ankle and introduced you to Chris way sooner.”

“Without the ankle, though, I’d never have had the joy of having him carrying me back inside like a feeble maid being brought over the threshold by her stoic knight.”

“I had no idea you had such a thing for being treated like a ragdoll,” Waylon mused, the wine already making him feel warmer.

“Don’t you?” challenged Miles. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about Eddie lunging you across the room like a javelin. You don’t date a guy that tall and _don’t_ ask him to use you like a pole vault. I reckon Eddie could toss you a good thirty yards if he wanted to.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it _that_ extremely,” Waylon chuckled. “But I guess it’s nice to know that there’s a possibility for it.”

As a sign of solidarity, Miles raised his glass, “To our men - and their giant, neanderthalic body masses.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Waylon laughed, clinking his glass against his friend’s and taking a fair drink of wine.

“What’re you two toasting?

Both Miles and Waylon jolted, barely saving the white tablecloth from their wine as they looked up to see Chris and Eddie watching them smugly.

“Just praising your bodily abilities to crush everything in your path like wild bison,” joked Miles.

“Well, I won’t deny that,” laughed Chris. The two men walked over to them, greeting their respective partners accordingly. Waylon returned the gesture with a kiss to Eddie’s cheek, muttering to him, “What took you so long?”

To which Eddie replied, “Traffic was horrendous, Darling. My apologies.”

Waylon hummed. “Well, you’re here now,” he smiled, squeezing his boyfriend’s arm through his shirt. Just as he had predicted, Eddie looked beyond perfect for the restaurants immaculate setting. He was even wearing the new waistcoat Waylon got for him; the one that may or may not be a size too small, just so Waylon can marvel at the sight of it hugging his boyfriend’s waist like a second skin.

“We hope we didn’t keep you two waiting long,” said Chris, taking his seat opposite Miles. “Though it seems you had no problems starting without us.”

“Forgive me, I had to quell my loneliness with wine as I waited for your arrival,” shrugged the journalist. “I can recommend it though - this place has a great wine menu.”

“How did you ever come across such a place, Miles?” asked Eddie, sitting opposite Waylon with minimal protest. The sight of Eddie next to Chris, both of them as ridiculously proportioned as they are, struck Waylon as hilarious; watching the pair of them dwarf the sizable table just by simply existing. “I would never have you down as someone who enjoys establishments such as this one,” continued the tailor, oblivious to Waylon’s amusement as he tried to not rub shoulders with Chris.

Miles shrugged again. “One of the chefs called me a few months back about a concern he had about the food. He said they put tracking devices in the dishes that measured your vitals so people can see if they want to kidnap you and drain your blood for their skin treatments. I came by, stole a menu for reference. Figured this place would make for a decent double-date.”

“And what happened to the chef?” asked Waylon. “Was he right?”  
“Huh? Oh. No,” said Miles, shaking his head. “No. Turns out he didn’t even work here - he was just some guy posing as a chef so he could stick SIM cards into the food. I always suspected it might have been a dead end.”

“Gee, you think?” said Chris.

“Rest assured, I’m onto far bigger things now.”

“Oh, I bet,” said Eddie. “What is it this time? Is it better than the time you claimed toothpaste was full of nannies that sink into your brain and play adverts in your dreams?”

“Not ‘nannies’, Edward. _Nannites_ ,” corrected Miles. “And I’m afraid I’m not allowed to disclose that information to you just yet. I’d tell Waylon, but he doesn’t work with me anymore, so I can’t trust him with my research.”

“I’ve never worked with you,” blinked Waylon. “You’d call me in the middle of the night and wouldn’t stop messaging me until I agreed to go out and investigate with you. All I ever did for you was pay for gas and hold your flashlight while you examined dirt.”

“Yeah, but you _fun_ at least, right?” said Miles. “Every time you came out, you’d bitch and whine, but you can never say that you regretted any of it.”

“You can quit the sales pitch, Miles,” said Eddie. “Waylon’s allowed to have boundaries, and not wanting to be guilt-tripped out of bed at midnight when he has work in the morning counts as one.”

“Eddie’s got a point, Miles,” said Waylon. “We can still go out, but maybe at times where it won’t make me feel like a zombie the next day.”

“But that’s the best part!” Miles defended. “It’s all just a product of a night spent hard at work, cracking the case! You can’t win a war without a little bloodshed. Granted, your relationship has made you a little soft around the edges, but I can forgive you for that. Once we get you back out in the field and roughen you up a bit, it’ll be just like the old times.”

“Soft around the edges?” Waylon echoed, eyebrows bent in confusion. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, come on, Way. Surely you can see that Eddie’s turned you into a total teddy bear,” snorted the journalist. “He’s got you on a steady diet of fondant, rom coms and early bedtimes. You’ve got relationship-gut something fierce and whenever I suggest something even _remotely_ outside of your comfort zone, you roll over and fall asleep like a grizzly ready for hibernation.”

Waylon blushed, looking down at himself and turning even redder when he realises that Miles, through all his usual incoherent rambling, was at least right about his relationship-gut. All this time, he had just thought that his jeans must have shrunk in the wash, but seeing now that he had the beginnings of a muffin-top was enough to make his blood run cold. Shit, was Miles actually _right_ for once? Had Eddie really domesticated him to the point of becoming no more than a fat housecat that hisses whenever someone blocks his view of the TV? Maybe he can tag along with Eddie the next time he goes on his morning jog . . .

His thought-process was stopped short, however, by the sound of Eddie saying, “Hey, I _like_ Waylon as he is. Make all the accusations you want, but I’d rather have Waylon home and safe, than out with you running from every authority under the sun.”

Waylon looked up to see Eddie watching him, the tailor’s gaze making his face heat up for a far kinder reason. He wished he had argued with Miles more about the seating arrangement; he wanted nothing more than to take his boyfriend’s hand and squeeze it in that gentle, familiar way that means “Thank-you”. Instead, he made a compromise and moved to brush his foot against Eddie’s, his sneaker resting against the man’s polished dress shoe. Waylon nudged him, and Eddie nudged him back, the small action making him grin like a lovesick idiot. Eddie turned his head to Miles, saying, “Waylon can make his own choices - if he decides that he doesn’t want to go out as much as he used to, then that’s his decision.”

“Gotta admit, I’m with Eddie on this one,” said Chris, appealing to his own boyfriend. “You’ll live a lot longer if you stop trying to break in buildings in the dead of night. You can’t do it forever, Miles. What if you hurt yourself?”

“You’ll also live a lot longer if you live in a bubble all your life,” said Miles. “And I don’t ever think about getting hurt, because if I did then there’s no point in doing anything. Besides, if _I_ do injure myself, I know you’ll be there to take care of me.”

Chris’ eyes widened as his cheeks began to warm, the giant man brought to a blushing mess at the smallest suggestion of tenderness. Waylon also caught the way Miles glanced at Eddie, the self-satisfied look on his face seeming to say “See? I can be romantic too, dickwad.”

_________________________

After Eddie and Chris had ordered their own drinks (a non-alcoholic gin and tonic for Eddie, and a non-alcoholic cocktail for Chris, the two of them crowned the designated drivers for the night) and all four of them had settled on what food they wanted, the evening continued on in relative bliss. Waylon and Eddie had even devised a game, where the other would try to see how far they could rise the cuffs of the other’s pant legs with the toe of their shoe, before Miles noticed and kicked them apart.

By the time their food had arrived, Miles had seemingly become set on making this double-date turn into something of a competitive sport. An example of this is whenever Eddie would suggest Waylon try a bite of his food.

“I insist that you have some of my duck, Darling,” said Eddie, already loading his fork with a bite for Waylon to take. Waylon, used to this treatment and with nothing against eating good food, leaned forward and let Eddie feed him, tasting the duck and humming in praise.

This display seemed greatly upsetting to Miles, who immediately looked to Chris and asked, “Wanna have a piece of my steak, Honey-Bear?”

Chris, with little grace, snorted at the question, before looking up and seeing that Miles was being serious. “Are you alright?”

“Of course I am, Shnookums,” huffed Miles. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Who the fuck is ‘Shnookums’? Are you having a stroke?”

“Christ, no. Now do you want my steak or not?”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing! I’m just asking if you’d like to try some.”

“Miles, we ordered the same thing.”

“It was just an offer, Chris, jeez. Why do you always have to poke holes in everything?”

Chris looked to Waylon and Eddie confusedly, clearly as taken aback by his partner’s point as the rest of them. “I’ll try your steak, Miles,” tried Waylon, not wanting to make his friend feel unheard.

“Forget about it,” the journalist mumbled. “Just thought I’d try and show how gross the two of you are.”

Upon learning that Miles’ whole act was derived from a need to make a childish point about PDA, Waylon rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat. “Alright, I’ll bite - how are Eddie and I ‘gross’?”

“It’s not something I can explain in just a few simple sentences, Way,” said Miles. “You two just . . . you act like you’re in some kind of government-funded play about how people think couples ought to act.”

“How so?” asked Eddie, brow furrowed.

“Okay, have this as an example, Ed-ster.” Miles looked to his partner, jabbing his thumb in Waylon and Eddie’s direction. “Chris, did you know that for a solid six months, Waylon and Eddie had shared a toothbrush? And when they found out they didn’t even care?”

“What?” gawked Chris.

“ _What_?” said Eddie, stunned. Waylon shrunk as his boyfriend looked to him, horrified. “You never told me that.”

“I didn’t wanna freak you out!” Waylon explained hurriedly. “I left my toothbrush in my hotel room during that conference I went on a while back. When I came home, I used yours as a replacement and just didn’t think much of it.”

“You told me you told him!” said Miles, his mood far brighter now that Waylon was in the hot seat.

“Well, obviously I hadn’t,” snapped Waylon, turning back to Eddie, who still looked as though he had been shot. “I don’t know why you’re acting like its such a big deal - you’ve stuck worse things of mine in your mouth and liked it.”

“Okay, _that’s_ gross,” said Chris, dropping his fork as he turned a faint green.

“I just don’t understand why you didn’t just buy yourself a new toothbrush after losing the old one,” said Eddie, voice distant, as if this was some great Shakespearean betrayal.

“I don’t know either!” confessed Waylon. “I guess I just got lazy and couldn’t be bothered, since nothing bad happened as a result of using yours. And stop pouting - you’d think I’d used it to clean the toilet from the way you’re treating this.”

“Are there any other lies you’re keeping from me?” Eddie gasped, turning white as he then asked, “Were you lying to me the other night when I ask if I had a grey hair?”

Waylon opened his mouth to defend himself, only to close his mouth and smile weakly as Eddie’s worst fears came true. The tailor slumped forward in his seat, holding his head in his hands as he groaned, “My God . . .”

“See? This is exactly why I lied - who cares if you have _a_ grey hair? It’s just hair.”

“ _I_ care,” mourned Eddie. “This just proves it, once and for all - I’m officially _old_.”

“You’re only just realising that now?” smirked Miles, before shouting, “Ou!” and glared at Chris as he rubbed his ankle under the table. 

“Forty-seven is not old, babe,” said Waylon, trying his best to assure his quivering disaster of a boyfriend. He reached out a hand and stroked Eddie’s arm. “ _Mature_ , yes, but not old. And it’s not like it ever mattered to me how you looked. You could have a whole head of grey up there and I’d still go nuts for you.”

“You’re just saying that,” Eddie huffed.

“I’m being serious! You have any idea how many guys hit thirty and immediately go bald? No offence, Chris.”

“None taken, I think,” said Chris, visibly offended. From the side, Waylon saw Miles frown with his boyfriend in solidarity.

“The fact that you still have hair to speak of is impressive!” the tech went on boldly. “And if you ever become a silver fox, you have my full support,” Waylon nodded. Eddie said nothing in return, but he certainly seemed far less warped in despair now. Waylon took it as a sign of victory, smiling at the man until he smiled back and settled down. Waylon wasn’t lying to him. Yes, granted, whilst the elven year age gap between them rose the suspicion of some (when they first began dating, Miles made it a point to constantly tell anyone and everyone that when Eddie was turning twenty-one, Waylon had yet to even turn ten), Waylon is, in fact, a fully-grown adult, and has been an adult for some time now, if the surplus of chest hair is anything to boast about. And as an adult, he can say, with a fully mature conscience, that he wouldn’t make Eddie any younger for anything.

Granted, there have been times when the generational gap has been strikingly obvious (favourite TV shows and music tastes are always treated with little understanding, from either party), but every time Eddie’s worried that he’s too old for Waylon, Waylon makes the gentle reminder that _he doesn’t give a shit_ . Eddie has made his life something more than a barely tolerable slog. It’d be wrong to say that Waylon lives for Eddie, but he does partly live to _love_ him. He wasn’t just trying to make Miles gag with his love language theory; every slow Sunday morning, every quiet walk around town, every heart-ridden note left on the bedside table, every second spent holding hands or aimlessly existing alongside one another, it all added up into this broad and ever-expanding dialect that Waylon found himself growing more and more fluent in with each day that passed. Eddie wasn’t perfect, that much is obvious, even to Waylon’s smitten-self, but he’s all Waylon needs, grey hairs and all.

_________________________

With the main course (and however many sides Miles had demanded) over, dessert was a decided must. Miles laid claim on a sundae, whilst Chris settled upon a cheesecake for himself. Eddie, not one for egregiously sweet things, merely ordered a coffee, whilst Waylon indulged himself with a chocolate souffle. Though that didn’t stop him from spoon-feeding Eddie. It was an innocent enough action as the next, but Waylon swears that if Eddie keeps looking at him through his eyelashes like that, he’s gonna have to sprint to the bathroom and dunk his head in a sink full of cold water. As if seeming to read Waylon’s mind, Eddie placed his hand over his, his thumb tracing light circles over his knuckles. It’s not anything new, nor of much significance, but the affection in the action (and the implications behind it) was enough to make the heat around Waylon’s neck climb up to his cheeks. To his side, he heard Miles mumble, “Ew.”

“Oh, quit being such a downer,” said Chris. “Just because you can’t find in yourself to be cute outside of the house.”

“I can be cute!” said Miles. “I brought you flowers to work the other day.”

“Yeah, and you then tried to rush past and break into appointed staff-only areas.”

“That was you?” said Waylon. “That explains why our whole unit was on lockdown while they ‘evacuated a dangerous intrusion’.”

“So I tried to kill two birds with one stone! You can’t hate me for being blessed with the ability to multitask,” shrugged Miles. “I’ve learnt my lesson, though.”

“Really?” Chris perked up.

“Yeah - next time I’ll scrap the flowers and just infiltrate my way in. I’ll steal one of Waylon’s nerd-passes and blend in, chameleon-style.”

“Chameleons don’t change colour to blend in with their surroundings, Miles,” Waylon told him. “They change based on their mood.”

“Is that why you came into my shop the other day, asking if I could make you a disguise?” questioned Eddie.

“Yeah, and thanks for throwing me out, Eddie-boy. Is that how you treat all of your paying customers?”

“You didn’t offer to pay, though. You asked if I had a discount for close friends, and when I told you I didn’t, you offered to pay me in favours.”

“Favours make the world go ‘round, Ed-man! And foreshame on you for not offering me a discount the moment I walked in - what kind of friend does that?”

“You have never given me even the slightest impression that you view me as a friend,” the tailor deadpanned. “A threat, yes, but never a friend.”

Miles then combusted into a fit of splutters and stutters, several times gasping “How can you say that?” and other times groaning, “I can’t believe you!” When he was done, he concluded his act by saying, “Eddie, I can’t believe that after a year of knowing one another, I have to tell you this, but any friend of Waylon’s is a friend of mine. And anyone boning Waylon, is practically a brother to me!”

“My, I feel so warmed to hear that,” Eddie drawled, making Waylon snort into his wine glass. “Just admit it, Miles. You’ve never seen me as anything but a driving force between you and Waylon the moment we started dating. Even just tonight, I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve tried to sabotage things.”

The whole table braced themselves for the weeping fit Miles was no doubt planning on throwing in response to Eddie’s claims, but instead, they were met with something much different.

“You know what, Eddie?” said Miles. “You are absolutely right. When you and Waylon first got together, I played the part of the supportive friend—

“No you didn’t,” muttered Waylon.

“—and I’ve tried my hardest to be nothing but respectful about your relationship—”

“You bitch about the two of them constantly,” added Chris.

“—and even though Chris and I have been dating for far longer and have, statistically speaking, have probably had more sex—”

“Are you prepared to bet all you have on that statement?” said Eddie, raising an eyebrow whilst Waylon sunk lower into his seat.

“—I still feel like I’m getting left behind,” finished Miles, turning to Waylon. “Ever since you and Eddie moved in together, it’s like you’ve forgotten we were ever bros. You were always there for me when I needed you, Way. Now, whenever I call it’s always ‘Sorry, Miles, Eddie’s taking me hiking’ or, ‘Sorry, Miles, Eddie found this kick-ass puzzle for us to do’ or, ‘Sorry, Miles, Eddie’s way taller than you so I don’t wanna be around you anymore’.”

“Your insecurities about your height are really shining bright tonight,” noted Eddie.

“He always brings it up when he’s drunk,” whispered Chris.

“The point is,” Miles spoke up, “I miss you. I miss my bro.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere, Miles,” said Waylon, voice soft with sympathy. “But I can’t be at your disposal like I used to be. The main reason I used to go out with you all the time, was because you were the only one that ever wanted to do shit with me, and even then, we used to only ever hang-out when you had a case to crack. And whilst I _do_ love those times, truly, I can’t always be there like I used to.” He looked up toward Eddie, who brushed his foot against his under the table as the tech said, “I have other things in my life now, things you’ll have to learn to share me with. Eddie isn’t robbing you of me - I just have other stuff going for me now, things that I can’t just suddenly drop because you call me in the middle of the night.”

“You know, when people are meant to be _asleep_ ,” Eddie added, only to shy away when he saw the frown Waylon sent him. 

“You’ll always be my friend,” he continued. “And I appreciate us all meeting up like this tonight - it’s nice to talk as a group.”

“It has been nice, hasn’t it?” grinned Chris. “Don’t you think so, Miles?”

Miles cast his head down towards the table, watching the remnants of his sundae melt and collect in a vanilla sludge pool at the bottom of the glass. After a moment, he shook his head, muttering something about needing the bathroom, and leaving his seat without another word. Stunned, they all watched him storm off to the bathroom, narrowly missing a collision with a waiter before disappearing behind a wooden door marked ‘MEN’S’.

_________________________

“He’s been in there a while,” said Chris, the worry in his voice as obvious as it was in his face. “Should one of us go check up on him?”

“I’ll do it,” sighed Waylon, patting the corner of his mouth with his napkin before getting up to leave. “I’ll leave you guys to deal with the check while I’m gone.”

“And how is that fair?” said Chris.

“As punishment for being late,” he shrugged, smirking down at the two of them as he rose from his seat. “Enjoy.”

The men’s bathroom was a series of stalls and a couple of urinals. After nodding awkwardly to another restaurant attendee at the sink, Waylon stuffed his hands into his pockets and tried his best to scour the bathroom for his friend without looking like a total creep. Once the only other attendee left, Waylon wasted little time on knocking on the sole bathroom stall door that was locked. “Miles, it’s me. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” came Miles’ gruff response. “I’m on the can, what’s it seem like I’m doing? That steak must have been old or something.”

“So you’re alright then?”

“Yes, Waylon, I’m fine. You can go back and make googly-eyes at Eddie now.”

“Alright,” said Waylon, “see you out there.”

He took a grand total of two steps away from the stall, before Miles called out, “Wait!”

“Yes?”

There was no response, other than the tell-tale sound of the bathroom door being unlocked. Taking the hint, Waylon reapproached the stall and pushed it open. “You better have your pants up,” he murmured, expecting the worst, only to see Miles sitting on top of the toilet, pants thankfully up, but his eyes red and his cheeks were wet with the beginnings of tears.

“Oh,” said Waylon, stuffing himself into the bathroom stall and locking it behind himself. It was an awkward fit, but he suspected his friend would appreciate the dedication to privacy. “You okay?”

“Obviously not,” his friend snapped, then hanging his head. “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No. No, it’s not,” he sniffed. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. I’m so . . . sensitive.”

“Any idea why you’ve been like this?” Waylon asked calmly, bending over slightly to meet Miles’ eyes better. “Is it do with what you were talking about at the table?”

“No.”

“ _Miles._ ”

“Maybe.”

Waylon nodded. “What’s wrong? And I mean really wrong - not just whatever hang-ups you have about me and Eddie.”

Miles looked to the tiled floor, shifting his feet around before saying quietly. “It’s to do with Chris . . .”  
“Chris?” Waylon’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, you’re not thinking of breaking up with him, are you?”

“What? No!”

“Is _he_ breaking up with you?”

“Way, calm down, Jesus,” Miles hissed. “Chris and I are doing fine. He’s great. He’s always great. He’s just never around, is the thing.”

“Ah,” said Waylon. “Is it because of his job?”

“Maybe . . . kind of . . . shit, I don’t know, man.” Miles sniffed again, reaching out for a piece of toilet paper to dab his eyes with. “He’s just been working a lot more recently. Which I totally get - Murkoff needs him around more while they’re working on larger projects, but understanding it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.”

“Is that why you’ve been calling me a lot more? You don’t like being in the house alone at night?”

“I guess . . . Before you met Eddie, it was easy to just reason it by saying I was keeping you company. But in reality, I suppose it was more like I needed _you_ to keep _me_ company. When I’m left alone, my head just wanders off to these really irrational places.”

“And now that I’m with Eddie and less available to hang out all the time, you’re left worrying about Chris more?”

Miles shrugged. “It’s not like I think Chris is _actually_ in any danger - he’s more than capable of handling himself. And I thought I was capable of handling myself, too, but apparently that’s a lie, because every time he leaves the house, I don’t know what to do with myself. Every logical thought I’ve ever had just goes flying out the window, and I’m terrified he’s never gonna come home. Maybe I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not crazy, you’re just an idiot who’s in love,” Waylon told him. “It’s natural to want people you care about to be safe. It doesn’t make you less independent if you give a shit about someone else.”

“And that’s why I wanted tonight to happen so badly. This dinner was one of the few nights he had off, and I wanted to make the most of it. I wanted to have two of the people I love the most around me. And Eddie.”

Waylon chuckled. “I’m sure Eddie cares about you as much as you care about him. Which, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say isn’t very much.”

“The guy wears vests, Way. _Vests_. You wanna know the only other person I know who wears vests? My great aunt - and even she has the brains to wear ones with little sheep on them.”

Waylon rolled his eyes, reaching out a hand to rest it on Miles’ shoulder. “Your gripes against my boyfriend aside—”

“You can’t call a middle-aged man your ‘boyfriend’, Way—”

“I think it might benefit your relationship if you tell Chris about how you feel. You can’t keep this from him forever, Miles. You’re gonna end up making yourself sick if you insist on just playing it brave all the time. You’ve known him for nearly two years now, don’t you think you’ve gone past the point of keeping secrets from him?”

“It’s not a secret if I don’t know what I’m actually hiding from him.”

“Well, I think a good start would just be to say ‘I miss you’.”

Miles scoffed. “I’m not some clingy fifteen-year-old, Way. What else you got?”

“How about just telling him that you want him to work fewer hours?”

“I’m not gonna micromanage him like that.”

“What about just saying that you want him home more?”

Miles opened his mouth, ready to shut him down, when he stopped and lifted his head. “That doesn’t sound too bad . . .”

“Great, let’s go tell him now.” Waylon turned around to unlock the stall, when Miles suddenly leapt up and grabbed his arm.

“Woah there, mister, I can’t just storm back out there and carve out my heart in front of a sea of strangers.”

“You don’t have to throw yourself at his feet, Miles. You just gotta say how you feel. You’re acting like you’ve never had an emotion before.”

“We can’t all be the mushy heartthrob you are, Way. All you have to do is _look_ at Eddie a certain way and he’s tucking you into bed with a hot-water bottle and a bedtime story. Those of us not in weird telepathic relationships have to work a little harder.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it - you’re made of ice that only hard-won vulnerability can thaw,” Waylon teased. “Let’s go, snow queen. Eddie and Chris are probably still cat-fighting over the check.”

Without further warning, Waylon slid the door unlocked and tugged Miles outside with him, the two of them stumbling out from the stall and into the main space of the bathroom. As they fixed their clothes (their shirts rumpled from being cramped up inside the small cubicle), they turned around to see another restaurant patron side-eyeing them from the urinal, no doubt confused about what the two of them were doing within such a small, one-man-only space. The two of them erupted into a light laughing fit that followed them out of the bathroom and back towards their table, where Chris and Eddie rose from their seats to greet them. 

“You guys settle on who’s gonna pay yet?” smirked Waylon.

“We already did,” chirped Chris.

“I insisted, as did Chris. We ended up having the waiter toss a coin to decide for us,” said Eddie.

“Yeah, and when that didn’t do anything, we considered arm-wrestling for it.”

“But we thought that’d be quite immature, so in the end, we split it.”

“Yup. Completely fifty-fifty,” nodded Chris, before leaning over to whisper to Miles and Waylon. “Actually, I won the arm-wrestling match. Eddie didn’t want you to think less of him so he asked me not to tell you, Way.”

“Snitch,” Eddie berated. “I can’t arm-wrestle properly in this shirt - it’s too tight.”

“I’ll say,” Waylon hummed appreciatively. “Don’t worry, babe. You can pay for dinner next time.”

“How are you feeling, Miles?” asked Chris, his eyes lighting up like they always do whenever they land on his partner. “We were worried you had fallen in or something.”

“Actually, Chris, Miles has something he’d like to tell you,” began Waylon, elbowing his friend in the side. “Go on.”

Chris’ expression faltered slightly, his gaze growing worried as he waited for his boyfriend to explain. Miles huffed, kicking his shoes against the carpet before he started, “Yeah, uhm, Chris, there actually is something we need to talk about.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, voice quiet with concern. “What is it?”

Miles breathed in sharply through his teeth, psyching himself up before he spoke. “Yeah, well, you see, I . . .”

Chris leaned forward, unable to restrain his nerves. “You . . ?”

Miles looked around wildly, his fidgeting growing as he finished, “I . . . I’ve been practising magic! Observe!”

Suddenly, the journalist gripped two corners of the tablecloth covering their table and yanked it towards him, sweeping the fabric clean off the surface . . . along with all the plates and glasses on top of it. Before all of it could even clatter to the ground, though, Miles had already swept his jacket off the back of his seat and raced towards the restaurant’s exit, all the while screaming, “Illusions, bitch!” He got as far as the door, before crashing into one of the waiters, and sending the two of them (along with the abundance of dishes they had been carrying) to the ground, and Chris had to promptly race over to stop his boyfriend from gnawing the poor worker’s ankles off. 

_________________________

“What a night, huh?” said Chris, always the optimist in the face of calamity.

“It’ll certainly be something to remember,” Waylon chuckled, his breath turning into white wind as he spoke. They were standing outside now, opposite the road where the restaurant stood. All the disaster Miles had caused had only taken place a mere ten minutes ago, but from the outside looking in, you’d never have guessed that Miles had tried to David Blaine his way out confessing his feelings to the man he’s been dating for twenty months.

“I just wish we could have done more to help,” said the security guard.

“You already paid for damages and helped clean up,” reasoned the tech. “I’d say that’s the most anyone can do when their boyfriend bulldozes his way through an establishment.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Chris soughed, his exhale crystallising in the cool Denver air. 

“Any idea how Miles is right now?”

“I’ve managed to tie him up with his seatbelt in the car - he’ll be fine once he calms down. He just feels embarrassed more than anything.”

“Yeah, well, to be fair, what he did was pretty embarrassing.”

“Yeah,” Chris laughed, “but I love him anyways. The guy’s a star-studded moron, but he’s all mine.”

“If you hadn’t carried him out of there before the hostess got to him, I don’t think he’d have gotten out alive.”

“I don’t think any of us would have made it out alive if we hadn’t been as fast as we were - Eddie’s brave for going back in.”

“We still need our coats,” Waylon reminded him. “Though I think the owner would rather keep them as insurance.” He looked up at Chris, chewing his lip before saying, “Do try to ask Miles about what he was gonna say before he freaked out, though. He might not be very apt at saying it, but I think he knows, deep down, that he needs to talk to you.”

“Of course. I’ll ask him when we get home, maybe sooner if he stops yelling about all the card tricks he knows,” promised Chris. “Anything you should warn me about before he tells me himself?”

Waylon shook his head. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. He’s a dumbass, but he loves you more than anything in the world.”

“Hm, I don’t know about that - I’m still fighting Bigfoot for the number one spot in his heart. I’ll keep at it, though.”

The two men laughed, before Eddie finally emerged from the restaurant with their coats. “Sorry, I had to sweet-talk the coat-check girl into not charging us interest for failing to provide our own hangers.”

“Since when do coatrooms charge for hangers?” frowned Chris.

“Since one of their ex-customers charged through their restaurant like a bull in a China shop,” said Eddie, holding open Waylon’s coat for him to put his arms in. “She didn’t put up a good enough fight about it, though, so I think we’re in the clear.”

“And how exactly did you manage to convince this girl to surrender her plight?” queried Waylon, raising an accusative eyebrow. “Did you exude your Gluskin charm unto her?”

“Horrific imagery, Darling,” Eddie winced. “And no - I merely made a big fuss and threatened to leave an unsavoury Yelp review unless she complied.”

“Good one,” Chris snorted. “I think I better head back to the car, now. I forgot to crack open a window and now I’m worried about Miles hyperventilating - what do you guys think, same time next week?”

“Provided Miles isn’t barred from every restaurant with a two-star or above rating in town after tonight, sure,” said Eddie.

“That’d be great,” Waylon concurred. “See you around!”

They waved Chris off and began their own slow trudge to Waylon’s car, Eddie’s arm finding its usual spot wound around Waylon’s waist. “I missed being able to hold you like this,” the tailor mused, pressing Waylon closer to his side like a magnet finally finding its other pole.

“We were within arm’s reach of one another for the whole evening,” Waylon chuckled. “I’m afraid Miles insisted that I sit next to him, for whatever confounded reason.”

“Well, next time, you’re with me,” said Eddie. “I can’t take another night eating next to Chris - that man is all elbows at the dinner table.”

“God, you’re such a snob,” teased Waylon. “Are your standards going to keep rising every year you get older?”

“Perhaps, but never when it comes to you, Darling. Unless you lie to me again, of course.”

“Damn, are you seriously still hurting over that grey hair? It was one hair!”

“One hair _too many_ , Darling. I already feel like an old goat every time we’re out in public together.”

They found their car soon after, Eddie taking Waylon’s keys and unlocking the doors, before Waylon nudged him aside and held his face like a delicate prize, “Hey,” Waylon said, “will you quit worrying about how other people see you? _You’re fine_. Even if you did look old, which you don’t, I’d still want you. Hell, you could be on life support and that probably still wouldn’t stop me from going bananas on you.”

“Such sweet poetry, Darling,” Eddie laughed, his whole face glowing as Waylon stood on his toes to kiss his nose.

“And if you still need proof that I’d adore you at any age,” said Waylon lowly, taking a hand off from Eddie’s face to toy with his belt buckle. “I can think of a couple of ways to show you my admiration.”

“Oh? Care to give an example?” smirked Eddie, his harsh features beginning to melt the lower Waylon’s hands went.

“Get me home fast enough, and you’ll see for yourself,” Waylon winked. “Now, open the damn car, old-timer. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

“Old-timer?” Eddie blinked. “That’s one way to ruin the mood, Darling.”

“I’ll think of some better names while you drive,” Waylon grinned, stepping back to leave Eddie room to unlock the car and for the two of them to get inside and drive home. And as Waylon grew impatient and began unbuckling Eddie’s belt before the tailor even made it onto the main road, he came to the conclusion that perhaps he’s not as averse to double-dates as he once thought. Provided they all ended like this, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> well? what do we think people???  
> if you like this and wanna see more fluff lemme know - I rlly enjoyed writing this, even if it screwed up my sleep schedule lmao  
> thx for reading lovely!!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


End file.
